Mother Knows Best
by barefootbean
Summary: FE9-10 The first day he held you, I knew it would be his last. Unknowingly, he'd all ready stolen you away from me - and so much more.  Ashnard, Almedha, Soren, second-person through her eyes throughout. Rated T for Ashnard.


(A/N): So... after grueling my way through the internet in search of limitless amounts of Almedha and Ashnard fics (dodging pop ups and viruses, with my trustee shield of anti-virus, I may add) and squealing as I get caught past my bedtime by my mother (oh snap!) - I find hardly anything at all! As in... approximately three fics showed up under all ratings. -headdesk- Sad tale, eh? -_And just who the heck is Amrita in the character search list?_ What is that, a Fanfiction blunder or something for Almedha? ...Screwy.

Er... _anywaaaaays_ - THAT little adventure is how this fic came to be. I decided to write one up! I should give fair warning that a lot of this was specualtion, and the majority of it was based off of what little of the FE9-10 timeline and character characterization I can recall. It covers quite a bit of the games - but really only the parts that I would think would have been most significant to Almedha. Also, I should probably mention that it's in second person. I've seen several different versions of second-person on this site, so really, I can't really say this is 'true to be' a second person fic, though that's how I intended to write it. How it turned out, however, is another case all together. Almedha comes across as a very... broken and emotional woman when it comes to her son(s) as a mother - and this one-shot basically revolves around that spectacular area with a lot of intentional choppy writing and dashes to emphasize that side of her, with Ashnard being the center of her problems (I really butchered puntucation with this fic. xD). As it is, there are multiple peaks of Ashnard, Rajaion, Izuka, and with Tyke!Soren as well within this. So it's got quite a bit in here...

Right, the fic, got it - I'll shut up now, dears. Happy reading~ .

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0o0o0o0

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The first day he held you, I knew it would be his last. Unknowingly, he'd all ready stolen you away from me—and so much more.

"His eyes are red," he assesses, face pressed close. "Like _yours_—" The small bundle of pink-cherry flesh and mesh of soft hair that was you did not cry. How could I tell, when I was not holding you next to my breast? Dear, I could tell, because I was painfully aware of everything the moment of your birth. I had never felt so scared in my life, when you came silent and still, chest not rising nor falling—eyes, not blinking or seeing me, _me,_ _your mother—_ The healers thought you to be dead at first, and then perhaps mute when I had screamed hysterically for other alternatives, screaming like any sane mother would for her child. Neither option was one I took a particular liking to, you should know, darling, how I worried for you—

_I want to see you_–

Then all at once you were sobbing, choking and spitting and howling like the devil himself had found you, and I was screeching at the priests and priestesses to bring you to me, to bring me my _dear son_, heavy limbs thrown desperately across the linen sheets to brace your flimsy form against me with my raw and aching fingertips—

Your father was cradling you.

I imagined you, pupils wide with innocent wonder as you looked into the eyes of an executioner—and realizing the pall he'd cast on us perhaps had broken your insomniac like trance—caused your little heart to _thump-thump-thrum_ in rhythm with his breathing (certainly mine was much too fast). I should have realized from the beginning that that would not have been the truth. It was always something more, and in your case, it was represented by the small interloping crescents on your forehead—a brand—the condemnation to a life of fear and far and few joys in between that I had given you. No, I would not allow that. I would not stand for it. For you, to live these years of your life in hiding with your fool of a mother who's made far too many mistakes and done nothing right—nonono–

Of course, your happiness is what matters. How could anything else, but your small body curled in my arms, curved in such a way that you were meant to be held, _just like this_—

I gasp as everything disappears around me_. Darling… you're so _warm_... _

And your features, your gentleness—you glow. Your hair—dark and fine, it is like silk to touch; skin—pale, like that of _his_; but eyes—your eyes—_my eyes_… They are crimson, and burn just as hot as any coal, and run just as deep to the roots as any family line.

_Darling, darling, darling, my son, I love you so—_

"He shall be a fine warrior. Perhaps better than me," my husband muses and smiles, mouth full of teeth and eyes like a Rattler. A predator—he watches you, and I hold you in the crook of my neck—envisioning our hiding far away… I'm sorry, dear. "We shall see what his blood holds."

You begin to wail.

Oh, yes. I'm so sorry. Your father, dear—he's insane. I'm sorry, darling. Don't worry—mommy's here for you…

Hush—don't cry, don't cry…

_Mother knows best._

.

0o0o0o0

.

You were cunning. I could see it within your eyes. How perceptive you were of the people around you. You never cried like most beorc children accept when I myself would, and only smiled (your innocent one—that toothless smile) when we were alone, your father outback on business and the beorc priestesses outside the room with their small staves, big eyes and pale skin—because _we_ did not need assistance, and you were my son anyway—_mine_. I would raise you inside the castle, away from the novelties and horridness of these beorc people… it would keep you safe, and myself rational. I would watch you grow into a man, and you would become more than I.

No mistakes on your part. Here, let me guide you in the ways, _dearest_…

The door cracks, and my head whips around in delight to see your smiling face— …What?

Wait… why are you not here? Why is _he_ coming here alone? (_murderer, skinner, liar, deceiver_) _Darling…?_

Your father steps into our private room—face red in the cheeks and eyes calculating and cold as that unsightly flurry advancing outside the frosty window nearby. I hide my horror of his approach, eyes looking anywhere but him. (floor, walls, ceiling, shoes) We aren't on the best of terms, he and I. Do you understand, darling?

_Clack, clack, clack_– His steps impend a coming demise.

Mine?

Ah– I can feel his breath on my neck. It's hot and steamy, like the springs of Goldoa. Strangely, this does not remind me of home. There is nothing comforting about it—it's frightening. But home wasn't comforting now, either—you wouldn't know, darling, don't trouble yourself with my trivialities…

"He's _pathetic_," he spits venom at my cheeks, and I cringe, wondering where you are and why you are not with him, your small body pressed against his chest, mottled hair covering the small brand of your mother's disgrace tattooed on your brow—right there, see? Red marks, so intricate–

My hands twist in my braid, tangling so. "Where is he?" My voice is quiet. I do not wish to speak. I want the answers without usage of this foolish tongue, this set back that keeps you away (his insanity I fear, _such a monster_). Every second is a second I don't spend with you—I am alone. Darling, darling…

"Not here."

He smiles, and part of my heart feels as though it's constricting, tightening, wrenching it's self apart—I imagine myself falling to the floor, him standing there so quietly, watching me die with glee as my heart seeps seamlessly into one of his fancy rugs on the cold, stone floor—my breathing stagnant.

It's certainly not far off from what could have been, yes?

"Gone. He's no use to me as a weapon. He's simply a branded, an incompetent, _slimy _little weasel—just as quick and deceiving, he is, _nothing_ I desire." He sniffs (and it's not from the chill in the air). "No powers, no abilities; a beorc in everything but the mark. I've had enough of deception and treachery for today!" His voice is snarling, like a wolf on the prowl, yet I do not care. "And you—_you selfish whore._ You mislead me," he roars, and I back myself into a corner, bookcases threatening to topple upon me– "To think that you would lie to me? Ha! Your kind is stupider than I gave it credit for. Tch. It seems I overestimated your… _comprehensive abilities_. Ah well…"

His words do not breach my mind. Meaningless they all are. He is but a fool with no sense but the heavy heart of greed. He thinks his touch hurts me? Then he does not know—no, he knows nothing of our tie, darling—you and I!

"_Listen to me!_" He screams.

…_Not here…_

It is all I hear as I think of you, words ringing in my ears so prominently, so _manifestly_— You are safe, darling—ah, you are safe from his madness! Spared! Now only to find you–!

A hand slams into the wall beside my head.

"Joyful, are we?" His face darkens purple with rage, and instinctively I stumble to my right—away—into the silken drapes as his hand raises, and I wonder—will that sting turn blue like the rest of them? They always heal—but I do not like it when you grasp them with your child hands. It hurts, _dearest_—but you are too young to understand that, yes? "I would like to see your face when it crumples with defeat, your fire sated. Then—when you watch me slowly kill him… Your brother certainly won't be happy with me, will he? And you? Why, you won't care a bit!" And he laughs—handsome head thrown back in insanity as he cackles and jests like a crow—and everything feels very cold just then.

I'm sorry darling, I'm sorry. Please… come back to me! _Mother knows best, mother knows best…_

I sink to the floor, my heart pounding in my ears as he turns and leaves with a billow of his cape.

_Mother knows best…_

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0o0o0o0

.

I am not allowed to leave my confinements. It's been weeks without you, and I have not seen the light outside for some time (the windows are barred, for obvious reasons, you would know). What is left? You are gone—and all I see are these same dank walls and a tombstone with our names engraved statically upon it. If you are not here, he has most likely killed you—just as he will kill me. I anticipate my death, and the words that would fit my grave. I imagine myself reading it aloud, "Loving Mother with a Complexity for the Insane—" Fitting, yes? I laugh in my head at the irony I am feeling as _he_ crosses my mind—and then the tears come. They always come. Fits of hysteria and blubbering that I cannot help but allow—holding back is no longer an option for me, it seems. I wonder dear, how are you holding up?

_I am fine–_

I have called for you many times (my throat aches; I would like some water, please) but you never answer. Have I upset you? Darling dear? Where are you? Ah, the arena with you father? I shall send a servant–

My brother is coming. He wishes to meet and greet. He can help you dear—me? You worry for me? Ha! Dear, oh dear…

I am long gone. Don't you know?

The burning sensation makes me start.

It is as if though I am on fire it feels—the chamber door cracks a bit further—and in my regular fit of panic I scream and fall to the floor in a tussle of robes and silk. (black; I mourn for us both) The light is so blinding—I cannot see anything—please, close the door, close the curtain! It's too warm on my face—too sudden—

…Close it.

I do not wish to see anymore darling—it is all so ghastly and cruel—and yet all I can see is his murderous face—_and then you_. Just _look away—lookaway—_

"Almedha… Sister?"

I dare not move. I dare not even breathe. My chest rattles, and I want nothing more than to die this instant. It would be better than seeing _him_.

"…R-ra-…ja-ion?"

I choke on my brother's name, because I know what is coming—I know who shall follow his shadow in a moment (_murderer, I call_) that _his_ presence will only lead to his demise so much quicker—

_And I am to blame_. The thought rings truth; please, kill me less I see this…

Tell me, _darling_—how is it, that I can leave something behind in hopes for something better, only always to stumble up upon the worst of things? How is it, that _he_—_he_ could betray me so as he did—and _you_—_where are you_? Where are you, dear? _Oh, darlingdarlingdarling—_

"_Almedha!_" I flinch at his blatant touch, whisper gentle yet firm, reassurances false yet promising—and I envision him then—face stern and unbending as Father the day I said goodbye. He is too good. Much too good for us to be related. I'm _so_ sorry—

"Thank Ashera I found you! Where's your son at? We must leave quickly—we'll discuss this issue later when we are _far_ away from this place of troublesome beorc—come on!"

I stumble as I raise my head. He's here too soon. Why?

Why did he must insist on helping? ...Why did I insist on asking?

"Away? I think not. Why don't you stay and… _entertain us_."

I am sobbing for him before the strike comes. Rajaion falls to the floor, gaze unseeing as he moans and convulses—and I look up at my husband in terror, face distorted in such false promises—and then away to the scrawny beorc next to him (because even _he_ is better to look at then _him_)—a small monocle covering a shameless gray eye, hair thick with oil—his eyes rove over this catch before him with fanaticism; he trembles.

I imagine my clawed hands ripping him to shreds, teeth slashing and gauging and piercing—and I smile—because the thought is so excruciatingly pleasing it hurts.

What a monster for a mother. What a monster for a father. "I'm sorry," I choke, but it is unheard, because you are not here, and neither is he, and my voice is thick.

He catches my mad gaze, and my look is returned with much more than aptitude. "Your brother is a _fine_ specimen." He cackles. "He shall certainly give what your son could not. You should be proud for having such a relative. It's a noble sacrifice for this country. Good day, _Queen_."

And they walk out while I try to still my breaking mind.

My vision is no longer blurry—it is red—red as a hundred million suns—

My husband, this man—King of Treason—King of Liars—King of Deception—King of Death—King of Thievery–

He has taken everything. I have nothing more to lose.

Darling? Darling darling darling… Has he claimed you too?

Please… don't come home. Not here. Not yet.

_Mother knows best._

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0o0o0o0

.

It's shocking. The years. Solitude has done nothing for me… I still think of you. Rajaion. His fiancé. _Him_.

Ah, yes, _him_. It's a shame I was not the one to kill him.

To appease my mind would have been a delight—he'd suffer greatly at my hand. Can you see his corpse, darling? It is mottled with flecks of gray—shades of it, patches of it– The cruelty to which I would have slaughtered him as he did _you—my brother—_

_Myself._

His death could never amend these years of loneliness. Ha! I should know–

Darling, darli… I don't think of you often anymore. I am learning to move on—to accept these facts… It still hurts, you know, all this procrastinating and your disappearance. I think I may be on to something. Perhaps… perhaps it's time to leave… to forget. To forget what I cannot find. Are you there, darling? Listening? (I am hopeful—though I hardly expect you to respond—_yes, mother_?)

To leave Daein—this bitter beorc country. That is my desire…

It is no place for a forgotten queen—especially a broken one. (I am shattered)

I do not know where I will go—but I know I cannot stay here. I do not belong here as much as the laguz corpse in the castle's chambers themselves—I feel like a fish out of water. I have reached too high and stumbled too low—it is difficult to recover now.

_Watch me bend–_

Izuka—he will take me. He's been by my side for sometime now, since _his_ death (his name still tastes like poison on my tongue, vile and bitter—like iron and wine). But first, he says there is someplace he shall take me before our departure. (I do not know where I will go—_certainly not home_—I can never show my face again–) I wonder what it is, wonder why he deems it important.

Darling… can you guess?

It is dark and raining when we arrive in the carriage (Izuka is in contact with many beorc—filth—all of them). Cold. Dank. Wet. _Familiar_. These small things I assess with particular disdain. They are not important to me—they are simply there to distract me—as if I don't know, darling? Ha–!

I hate it profusely and offer to stay where it is dry (where else shall I go?).

"Wait here, my queen," he cackles, robes billowing hazardously and monocle sliding down his face. It's disturbing to watch.

I shiver slightly, and Izuka disappears just as quickly as he had spoken. I am left with my thoughts—and find that I think of nothing. There is nothing to think of—nothing to feel.

I do not even think of you. (though we both know otherwise)

Instead, I wonder—contemplate?—how different things would have been, were _he _not killed—how strange this world would have been to me—had I not left for Daein. It is an unpleasant image that cascades my mind—harsh and foreign. My hands shake –with what? undeniable anger? rage? —and I curse—curse his name for making me like this—so vulnerable and weak—_brittle fragile desolate barren dry_–

(You do not wish to here this, and I certainly do not wish to think it)

I wish I had been the one to kill him.

Darling, men are fools, and women are only pawns for them to soil their hands. Don't be greedy, dearest… don't get married. (I forbid it)

"Queen Almedha?" I glance up in little interest, Izuka having returned faster than I deemed to anticipate. He seems full of surprises lately—not all of them pleasant. Skulks, he does—everywhere with malice and an objective.

"Yes?" He smiles—and I twitch. It is a smile I can place from not long ago (months are equal to seconds—and years to days—time is like quicksand, darling)—but not one that I wish to.

(I forget. _You were not there for _that–)

"I have something for you." I frown. Gifts? Surely he's jesting, mocking me. It's not an uncommon situation for me to be placed in.

"Show me," and I step out of the carriage impatiently, my veil covering my face. It does little against the rain, but there is little hope for such an eve–

_OhGoddessAshera–_

I stare.

Blue eyes look back at me—_azure—oh Goddess_—_don't be cruel_–

"Well?" Izuka sounds smug; I am too occupied with this boy in front of me to care.

"…You're my… M-mother?" It his voice that breaks the silence—his stuttering questioning and absurd expression that brings my memories crashing back down like the Goddess's wrath herself—breaking and smashing me to pieces and sharp little edges–

Do they fit like a puzzle? (_Much too jagged, dear_–) I did not think so–

I am sure I am crying, but I do not care. The Goddess weeps more than I, and I am sure I will drown in this endless sea she is bringing–

She's all ready claimed my sanity more than once—twice—and thrice she now decrees her will upon her daughter–

Darlingdarlingdarling—

You're breathing.

_You are alive. You are real. Darling dear?_

I can hardly tell you what it means that you are here—breathing!—_and that _he _has lied once more_—for once, it is not something I detest. It is—it is— I swallow my panic.

This—_this_, I do not know. What is this—this… sensation I feel–?

"_Your name_," I gasp. "_What is your name,_" I screech and stumble in your direction. "Tell me!"

My throat feels parched. (water dear, _water—can't you hurry?_)

You take a careful step back—and I take two steps forward—

_Darling? _

Do I frighten you? Darling, I'm sorry, _so_ sorry, _so so sorry_—these memories are so strong I feel as though I may burst–

"…P-pelleas… My name is Pelleas—at least, that's what they called me at the orphanage. I mean, you may have named me something else, but I–I do not what that name is anymore…"

You are in my arms in an instant (can you feel my heart racing?) and you are so _warm_ and light—it is the strangest feeling. I do not know what this is—darling? Tell me—no, _shh…_ hush. Don't speak, don't speak…

Mother's here, mother's here–

I sob into your shoulder. Dear, the tears, they are overflowing now—the Goddess shall kill us all at this rate–

"M-Mother?"

"I'm _s-so sorry_—_Pelleas_—oh, _Goddess_—you're alive _you're alive_–" Your name is not foreign to me. Nothing is-

You do not move from your position as I mourn. Such manners. Did I teach you those? (I can hardly recall anymore–)

Of course I did—_he _certainly didn't darling—no, no, he would not—_as we both know_—

_Mother knows best,_ yes?

Cackling comes from nearby (it is in not thunder, I realize), and I tower over your shoulder to wail at the dwelling of the Goddess—_seeking, looking, for something I know not of_—

Happiness? _No, that is not meant for me, not even here_–

_No-no_—

Crimson eyes never even crossed my mind.

_All I can see is blue_–

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0o0o0o0

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End file.
